Tracing Scars: Ximena Borrazás’s Photographic Witness

Ximena Borrazás’s prints rest unmounted on a table in her Lisbon studio. Each measures 30 by 40 centimetres, printed on handmade Kozo paper. The fibrous texture catches the light unevenly. The ink has absorbed into the material just enough to blur the edges, resembling a memory on the verge of dissolving. Many of these images will be displayed at her upcoming exhibition at the Museo de la Memoria y los Derechos Humanos in Santiago, Chile, opening in February 2024.

For a decade, Borrazás has examined the aftermath of war, focusing on gendered violence often omitted from official narratives. Her latest series, Heridas Silenciadas (Silenced Wounds), documents survivors of sexual violence in South America and Central Africa. These images are not traditional portraits; Borrazás’s camera often lingers on hands, feet, or objects—a folded piece of cloth, a broken comb—implying presence without revealing identity.

“Photography does not heal trauma,” Borrazás said in an interview at her studio. “But it can create a framework for witnessing. These women’s stories are not mine to tell, but I hope these images help them to be heard.” This statement reflects her collaboration with local networks of survivors and counsellors, who guide her in framing narratives ethically and visually. Borrazás works exclusively with consented participation, ensuring that any images shared publicly are jointly selected and contextualised.

Borrazás’s approach draws from both documentary and fine art traditions. Her studies in visual anthropology at Goldsmiths, University of London, trained her in ethnographic observation, while her aesthetic owes a debt to the Arte Povera movement. The materiality of her work is as significant as the content: prints are often displayed unframed, pinned carefully to the walls with clips that reveal their edges. This refusal to encase her work signals a resistance to sanitising or commercialising trauma.

The Museo de la Memoria has been a pivotal collaborator in amplifying Borrazás’s work. Established in 2010 to preserve the memory of victims of Chile’s Pinochet regime, the institution has shifted its focus in recent years to include broader human rights discourses. The exhibition’s curator, Carolina Moraga, emphasised the importance of this intersection in a phone interview: “Trauma is not bound by geography. By showcasing both historical and ongoing violence, we hope to underscore the continuity of these struggles.”

In Heridas Silenciadas, scars take centre stage—both physical and metaphorical. One image features a piece of fabric stained with indigo dye atop a charred wooden bench. The texture of the dye imitates bruises, a visual echo of violence endured. Another photograph captures a scarred tree trunk in the Congo, where a survivor explained how rebel forces used the tree as a site of repeated assault. The photograph is paired with a written account, but Borrazás avoids placing text directly alongside the prints. “Words come after,” she explained. “The image should invite the viewer to pause, reflect, and then seek context.”

The balance between aesthetics and ethics in representing trauma is precarious. Scholars have long debated whether such depictions risk aestheticising suffering. Susan Sontag’s Regarding the Pain of Others (2003) delves into this paradox, questioning the viewer’s role as both witness and voyeur. Borrazás engages with this critique by embedding her visual work within tangible advocacy. Proceeds from print sales fund support services for survivors, and her partnerships include NGOs such as the Panzi Foundation in the Democratic Republic of Congo, led by Nobel Peace Prize laureate Dr. Denis Mukwege.

Yet Borrazás’s visual choices also gesture towards absence. Her images often appear incomplete, with subjects partially outside the frame or obscured by shadow. This fragmentation underscores the irretrievability of certain experiences. “I’m not interested in closure,” she said. “Closure implies an ending—trauma doesn’t work like that.”

Borrazás’s photographic process reflects this openness. Using a large-format film camera, she slows down the act of image-making. “Every exposure is deliberate,” she remarked. The resulting negatives, developed in small batches, carry imperfections—scratches, uneven tones, even dust particles are left unedited. These flaws, she insists, belong to the story as much as the image.

The context of Borrazás’s exhibition at the Museo de la Memoria invites a broader meditation on the role of art in addressing social issues. Can a photograph document suffering without exploiting it? Can it provoke action rather than passive empathy? Moraga believes it can. “The power of Borrazás’s work lies in its multilayered engagement. These are not just photographs—they are evidence, testimony, and dialogue.”

This dialogue extends beyond the gallery walls. The exhibition will be accompanied by a series of workshops led by survivors, designed to engage local audiences in discussions of gender violence. These workshops reflect Borrazás’s belief that art must intersect with action. “The image is only the beginning,” she said. “What matters is what follows.”

As Borrazás’s unframed prints prepare to travel from Lisbon to Santiago, the question lingers: how will these images resonate across contexts? Trauma may resist resolution, but through Borrazás’s lens, it finds a space for visibility—a delicate act of unfolding.